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Inner Fight Club of the Jitters Matrix
I have the headache from hell. Straight from hell. Like, right out of Satan’s ass.
Not the cool kind of headache, either. Like the I-was-in-a-fight-and-won kind of headache. Nope. No Fight Club rites of passage for me. No insane acts of heroism masking a carnal desire to feel alive. No "you should see the other guy" tales. No wins.
Only losses.
My boss, Deena, is saying something. Sounds like a Charlie Brown teacher. Wah-wa-waaah. Hazy. Far away. Even though she's standing in front of me. Right in front of me. As in, I can see her pores and the lipstick on her teeth in front of me.
She's trying to look demure as she lectures me. Something about getting something filed. Or is it filled? Or is it…?
Man, what the fuck?
The truth is, I couldn’t care less what she’s going on about. All I can concentrate on are my sweaty palms, dry mouth, and pounding headache.
If this was Fight Club, I'd be the narrator: stuck in a boring-ass office of paper-pushing drones, being lectured by a frumpy-ass supervisor I don't like.
I can't even begin to focus on her words, let alone their meaning. It feels like I'm not really here. Like I'm watching her lecture my empty body from across the room. The Fight Club narrator had said something about a situation like this... "When you have insomnia, everything is an out-of-body experience. Nothing is real. Everything is far away. Just a copy, of a copy, of a copy..."
I might be paraphrasing, but mad respect to the author. That shit is Hashtag Truth.
Not that I'm sleep deprived. Not really. I'm suffering from deprivation of another kind. And this one-way tête-à-tête with my boss is only making the itch worse.
I'm not here. I'm a copy. She's a copy. This is a copy of a copy of a conversation we have almost every day.
Ah, shit. Now she’s looking at me like she expects me to say something. Did she just ask me a question? Or…maybe she’s just making sure I’m paying attention. Which I’m not.
I go with something affirmative yet ambiguous: “Yep, got it.”
I do my best to smile. I bet it looks fake. Or goofy. Maybe both.
She gives me an odd look, but nods.
Deena is a copy. A copy of a copy of a Pinterest post from a Good Housekeeping magazine article. Except she doesn't fit into her...
Not the cool kind of headache, either. Like the I-was-in-a-fight-and-won kind of headache. Nope. No Fight Club rites of passage for me. No insane acts of heroism masking a carnal desire to feel alive. No "you should see the other guy" tales. No wins.
Only losses.
My boss, Deena, is saying something. Sounds like a Charlie Brown teacher. Wah-wa-waaah. Hazy. Far away. Even though she's standing in front of me. Right in front of me. As in, I can see her pores and the lipstick on her teeth in front of me.
She's trying to look demure as she lectures me. Something about getting something filed. Or is it filled? Or is it…?
Man, what the fuck?
The truth is, I couldn’t care less what she’s going on about. All I can concentrate on are my sweaty palms, dry mouth, and pounding headache.
If this was Fight Club, I'd be the narrator: stuck in a boring-ass office of paper-pushing drones, being lectured by a frumpy-ass supervisor I don't like.
I can't even begin to focus on her words, let alone their meaning. It feels like I'm not really here. Like I'm watching her lecture my empty body from across the room. The Fight Club narrator had said something about a situation like this... "When you have insomnia, everything is an out-of-body experience. Nothing is real. Everything is far away. Just a copy, of a copy, of a copy..."
I might be paraphrasing, but mad respect to the author. That shit is Hashtag Truth.
Not that I'm sleep deprived. Not really. I'm suffering from deprivation of another kind. And this one-way tête-à-tête with my boss is only making the itch worse.
I'm not here. I'm a copy. She's a copy. This is a copy of a copy of a conversation we have almost every day.
Ah, shit. Now she’s looking at me like she expects me to say something. Did she just ask me a question? Or…maybe she’s just making sure I’m paying attention. Which I’m not.
I go with something affirmative yet ambiguous: “Yep, got it.”
I do my best to smile. I bet it looks fake. Or goofy. Maybe both.
She gives me an odd look, but nods.
Deena is a copy. A copy of a copy of a Pinterest post from a Good Housekeeping magazine article. Except she doesn't fit into her...
